Mothers Day Poem, Traditions

by Nancy
(OH, USA)

Of all days for her to come down with something, it was Mother's Day. I sat downstairs with my brother and sister, wondering what we were going to do. Each of us had our Mothers Day gift with us – I had a hand-painted still life of strawberries in watercolor – and had been waiting for a good three hours for mother to wake up. My brother Sam went upstairs to check on her.

When he returned we decided that the three of us should do something useful, and let mother get some well-deserved rest. We rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

My duty was to make lunch. I have been short since the age of thirteen, so I had to stand on a chair to reach the spices, pots, and pans.

Sam took the task of giving the kitchen and hallway a good old buff and polish. Our sister cleaned the bedrooms and bath. By afternoon the house smelled of carpet shampoo, orange cleaner, and herbal chicken.

Mom came downstairs and sniffed the air. Warmth and joy danced around her brown eyes. It was a wonderful, wonderful day, and we couldn't have felt more proud of ourselves. That year was the start of a tradition for the three of us, to do this every year and let Mom have the day off.

Beginnings of Tradition

When I was afraid of the dark
You had always been the light
When I had my moment of doubt
You had been the tome of infinite knowledge
When I reach out for someone
Your hand is the first to reach for mine
Have I mentioned to you that I love you
Or do you already know?